


My Soul To Take

by IsYourH3artTaken



Category: Lost Boys (1987), Lost Boys (Movies)
Genre: But David prevents her from it, F/M, Goddamn it David, Horror, Platonic Female/Female Relationships, Slow Build, Star tries to be a good Bro, Supernatural Elements, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 01:03:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7824124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsYourH3artTaken/pseuds/IsYourH3artTaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Living in Santa Carla, Hannah thought she had seen every form of bizarre. But during her final days of high school, as the concept of life and safety begin to crumble at her feet, she begins to wonder what the hell she got herself into by befriending Star. David/OC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. home of the misdemeanor homicide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I don't know how to stay tender  
> with this much blood in my mouth."  
> — Ophelia, Act IV, Scene V

**DAY 1**

**I** don't know what it is about Santa Carla, but it attracts some of the weirdest people I've ever seen.

With rival gangs fighting for the Boardwalk, two junior high schoolers picking on anyone who as much as looks at them funny in their comic book store, people suddenly going missing by the beach and neon graffiti spray paint tacked all over the walls in big boxy words I can barely read, there's a reason why the ones who come here looking for a place to settle down permanently never end up staying for good. Either they pack up and leave or no one really sees them ever again, like they fell through the sand and the waves washed away their heads. This is only during the weekdays too. On Fridays, like today, it gets a lot weirder. Tonight, I have my usual after school shift at Ethel's Mortar and Pestle. Lucky.

I emerge from the stockroom with a cardboard box of shawls that just shipped in this morning, struggling to hold it up below my chin as it weighs everything that currently holds in my closet, plus half of this store. Francie, the owner (who inherited the place from her dead great-aunt Ethel), stands at the glass counter and taps her white tipped nails against the top. It started out originally as just an outlet to buy herbs and spices, but over the years it brings in new trends as Francie see fit to grow into them. Last year it was chunky jewelry. This time around its gemstones; amber, amethyst, moonstone, and agate. The stuff that's meant to screw with your feelings and make you feel all sorts of stuff. Francie insists that it's true, but it all sounds like nonsense to me. A tiny piece of rocks that has the power to control my mood?

Yeah, sorry. Santa Carla is filled up on crazy.

"You have plans tonight?" Francie asks, untying the knot of her peach colored apron while I crack open the new shipment.

I pause. "Uh... no. No, not really. Why?"

"I was just wondering if you might like to close up shop for me tonight."

 _Oh._ "Oh."

Closing... that's another level I didn't think I was getting pushed on this soon. After answering her help wanted ad taped to the front of her door during Junior Year, you would think one has enough confidence to do something like this on their own. This isn't the case for me. She's actually taught me the basics of shutting down the store and register twice before; the first run ended in the day's till counting up short (which apparently doesn't look good for paperwork) and the second never went through since the store's faulty smoke detector went off and we had to spend the whole night waiting for the electrician to come by to switch it off. Fast forward to Senior year and I haven't tried again since then. Needless to say, I'm pretty nervous about being left here to fend for the store alone.

Francie senses my doubt and frowns. "You don't have to if you're not ready-"

"No, I am," I say, taking a deep breathe and set down the box cutter. There's about fifty shawls and sheer fabric inside. I don't know how I'm going to get them all on the rack in time to finish pricing the soaps, facing the fragrance oils, and in the amidst of that, try to remember how to close out the stupid register. I guess I'll just have to figure it all out as I go. "I can do it."

Francie studies me for a minute, eyes scanning over my face. She pushes a coil of ginger hair from her forehead and purses her lips. She always does that when she thinks something is not entirely there. "Okay. If you're sure."

I sigh as she turns to get her coat and purse from the breakroom. Between school, time at home, and doing whatever harebrained idea my friends want to do on days off, working on the strip of the Santa Carla Boardwalk has it's perks. For one, you get to learn everyone's idiosyncrasies. From the property owners to the employees and anyone who comes and goes. I used to think Francie was one of those characters that sniffed a little too much marker fumes when they were little, but now from what I see of the boys down at the comic shop, I've come to appreciate her peace loving nature. Maybe it's those creepy stones she always goes on about having an effect on her. They do make the shop feel different. Not in a bad way or anything. It's just a lot lighter in here. I guess it's because of the instant "feel good" vibe you get the moment you open the door. All the customers comment on it when they walk in.

Hearing Francie move around in the back, I get to work on clipping up the scarves on the hangers, resisting the urge to look up at the clock and watch the seconds drop lower and lower to the second she leaves me here by myself. It's only for five more hours. I can do five hours.

If I don't keep looking at the clock.

"Emergency numbers are in the back if you need them," Francie reminds, buttoning up her jacket. "And don't forget the key sticks in the lock when you turn it. Give it a shake and it should be fine."

I nod, preoccupied with lining up the shawls on the racks so they hang right.

"Did you hear me?" Francie nags.

"Yep." I hook on the last merchandise item and turn to face her. "Phone number. Key sticking. Shake twice. Don't die. I'll remember."

She blanches. "Hannah-"

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding!" I tell her quickly before she practically faints. "You don't have to stay. I'll be fine on my own."

Francie slings her brown satchel strap over her shoulder and fixes me with a hard stare. Clearly she isn't amused by jokes. I tried pulling something similar on the video store owner a few months back and he didn't laugh either. What's with the broken bridge between adults and humor nowadays? "Call me if something goes wrong or if you have questions."

"I will. I promise."

"And don't forget about-"

"The keys." I try to not to roll my eyes. Sometimes she forgot I'm in high school and not grammar school. "I was listening. I do that sometimes, you know."

"Really?" Francie smirks. "I never would have known."

I smile at her as she opens the door and waves goodbye. The bell dangling above the frame dings once, then with a cold swish of air, shuts again. It's only me, the spa music that's been playing on loop for the past half hour, all these unfinished packages and the gleaming stones that I can see shining from their table out of the corner of my eye.

 _Five hours,_ I tell myself. _Five hours until closing._

I can do it.

I hope...

**LATER THAT NIGHT**

By the time the sky turns a shade of strawberry-orange, half the store is swept, the oils are priced, markdowns are put back where they belong and most of the shelves are restocked with merchandise. The only thing that won't be done is marketing for tomorrow and the creepy plastic mannequin shoved in the corner Francie wanted to me to dress up to advertise our new brand of mini spandex skirts. People begin to flood in from the streets on their way to the Boardwalk. I can see them passing by the door, their car headlights casting long cylinders of light through the store or laughing in groups as they head for the bright glow of blinking lights that promise of night full of fun. Even when it's cold out, the strip always manages to stay busy. There's not much traffic for the shop during the night, as most would rather go on rides or buy candy, but that works out better for me now that I'm by myself. I have more time to figure out how to close out the register without messing everything up.

Right as I'm about to switch the sign at the front entrance to **CLOSED** , the door swings open, revealing a girl with long dark curly hair standing in the frame and a glimpse of the starry night behind her. She steps in hesitantly, the bell overhead chiming softly. The door closes, blowing her cream colored ankle length skirt around and almost hits her back when it clicks shut. I shudder from the gust of cold air and realize that she isn't much older than me, now that her face isn't shadowed out by moonlight. Except she's taller and looks old enough to be in college. Pretty, in a simple understated way.

"Oh, hi," I greet her and move back to stand behind the glass counter, a bit caught off guard and surprised that a customer actually came in during this hour. "Can I help you find anything?"

"No, thank you," she replies, gliding over to the booth where all our jewelry is displayed. She holds the dark brown strap of her bag on her shoulder like it's a lifeline. "I just came to look."

I nod and let her walk around by herself, not wanting to be one of those pushy department store employees who ask you a million questions a minute without stopping to let you answer and try to convince you to purchase something you don't want. People go on about customer service being the most important thing, but I'd say personal space is just as important too. I rest my chin on my palm and drum my fingertips gently on the counter, losing myself in the quiet hush of nature music that filters in through the record player. The girl wanders through the store for a while, touching a necklace, picking up a ring to look at it before moving on to the next aisle. When she gets to the gemstones, she freezes, eyes locking on to the tiny ovals of rich colors and captivating power. Or at least that's what the little manual taped above the table says. Only in Disney movies do stuff that like actually work.

The girl's eyes roam over every pebble, but they keep flicking back to a large blush colored one in the center. She leans in closer for a better look, but doesn't touch it. Her dark eyes glisten with intrigue, like this is the first beautiful thing she's seen in her whole life. I only see that expression when people see a price tag marked down to half it's cost or when I tell them it's 'buy one, get one free' day. It's nice to see genuine interest once and a while.

I lean away from the counter, noticing the specific gemstone her eyes are trained on and trudge over to her carefully, not wanting to weird her out with some random bits of useless information. "That's a rose quartz. It's supposed to have healing powers. If you can believe in that stuff."

"You don't?" She questions.

I shrug a shoulder. "It hasn't shown me anything worth believing in yet."

The girl finally tears her eyes away from the chunk of rock and looks into my eyes for the first time. They look so... so sad. "Me too," she murmurs, so lowly it's like she's worried someone else might hear. Then slowly, she reaches a hand out and picks up the gem in her palm, cradling it carefully. Her thumb smooths over it and a hint of smile plays over her full lips.

From her hypnotized behavior, something tells me she believes in _something_.

"They say you should pick the one that speaks the most to you," I explain, remembering the script that Francie follows every time someone approaches the table. It sounds so much crazier coming from me and I almost cringe at the thought of it. Good thing she isn't here to see it. I'd be black mailed into closing for her every night until I graduate from college. And I'm not even done with high school. "Looks like you found it."

The girl doesn't respond back, but her features do twist as if she's trying to make up her mind about it. I can tell she's taken a special liking to it. It was clear the moment she ogled it like it was shirtless body builder. But I don't want to make her feel like I'm forcing her to buy it, so instead, I quietly shuffle away and go over to the back of the store where we light our tester candles. They've been burning all afternoon and the flame has melted most of the wax to liquid, so I blow out the wick, accidentally inhaling small clouds of smoke and a faint scent of pineapples. Once the rest are extinguished, I tuck a strand of sandy hair away from my face and rake my memory for what else there is to check before shutting everything down.

By that time, the girl comes up to the register with the rose quartz in hand and a tea stained flower printed shawl I hung hours earlier on the rack. She smiles at me when I double check her change to make sure I don't accidentally give her too much or not enough. But like before, it appears sad and forced, like she doesn't know what to do or where to go after this.

"Thank you," she says earnestly when I hand her the bag and receipt.

"You're welcome. Have a good night."

I wave at her when she pauses at the door and glances over her shoulder at me. Our eyes connect for a moment, and for the first time since looking at her or meeting anyone in general for that matter... I can feel her energy. It's lonely.

And lost.

Then with a single push, the bell dings and she's out into the night, leaving nothing to accompany me accept empty aisles and the echoes of screams coming from the Giant Dipper.

**TWO HOURS LATER**

Not long after the rose quartz is sold, Ethel's Mortar and Pestle locks her doors, turns off the light and closes down for the night. We're the only shop on the Boardwalk strip that shuts down an hour earlier than the rest, so by the time I'm ready to leave, the theme park is still well lit and teeming with activity. It's almost eleven o'clock. The crowd isn't as thick as it was two hours ago and wandering around by myself near the dead game booths is kind of creepy, but there's always a security guard on duty patrolling the grounds, making sure no Surf Nazis get into trouble or anymore people go missing. I could walk to the comic book store and read a couple magazines for a while or go to the carousel and sit on one of the plastic horses until the rent-a-cop comes to make sure no one is in here before they shut off the theme park's power. But that's probably turned off already too.

Or maybe there's a bench somewhere I can sit and watch the tiny hands on my watch tick gradually to midnight. I just don't want to go home yet.

But I know I have to eventually.

I guess there's no point in putting it off. Spending a night away from home without telling anyone will make it seem like another runaway story and the cops will get involved. That's something I don't want to deal with. It's better to suck it up and face reality. There's only three months left of high school anyways. Then nothing will tie me to Santa Carla and I'll be free.

The route from the Boardwalk to home takes about twenty minutes on foot. As soon as the main powers whirs down and all the lights go off, I stand up and make it out as soon as I can to the lamp posted streets. Mr. Beasley, the security guard, nods at me on his way to his car when we pass each other. He's been one of the nicer ones that the park has employed; the others were either too strict or disappeared completely without a trace after a few months on duty. Some people must really hate their jobs. Maybe he won't wind up like the rest.

The kitchen light is on in the house when I come up to the porch, key in hand, but I don't see anyone through the window that overlooks the front yard. I breathe in, hoping Jennifer and Ralph aren't mad at me for staying out so late. It's not like I was out chugging down a six pack with the Surf Nazis or something. A low budget herbalist shop isn't exactly a point of focus for a bunch of college dropouts who want to do nothing but drink and get high all day. But in their heads, I could have been doing anything with anybody. They'll probably be mad and ground me for a week or two. Like they would actually take the time to make sure I stayed in the house. There's only one way to find out.

I unlock the door, close it shut behind me, then lean my back against the wood and listen.

No sound of of the Santa Carla Nightly News playing on TV. No crackle of a pan sizzling on the stove or high heels clacking on the kitchen tiles. It's quiet.

I tip toe to the opening of the kitchen, preparing myself in case they are in there planning to ambush me two-on-one. I don't know what would be more of a big shocker. The fact that they noticed I was gone too long and wanted to talk to me about it or that they forget to turn off a light. The round dining table built for three still has plates on them, but only two are set and they're scraped clean of food. Even the glasses are half filled with water. There's another china set on the counter by the sink, like they had put it in right beside theirs while making dinner, then cleared it away at the last minute. By the looks of it, they were expecting me home.

And I didn't show up.

Tiredly, I trudge up the stairs to my room, ready to burrow under the covers and sleep until morning. Ethel's is usually closed all day on Saturdays unless there's a leak in the fragrance oil shipment and I'm forced to get up at six o'clock to help Francie clean it up, so I don't have to worry about waking up particularly early for school or anything else. I'll still stay busy though and finish up some homework assignments over the weekend before they're due on Monday. I could do them tonight after I shower while my hair dries, but my soft fluffy bed has a stronger call. I'm too drained to resist.

"We can't keep doing this, Ralph."

Footsteps pace back and forth on carpeted floor behind the master bedroom, casting dark long shadows on the wall behind me by the movement of their feet against the dull yellow light. I freeze in front of their door, one hand coming up to touch the white frame and cup my mouth with the other.

"I know, I know."

"Sales haven't been doing too well. Corporate says that we might be out of business if we don't pull our numbers up before summer starts. And with Jack back East with the new baby..."

"Wait a minute, Jenn-" Ralph interrupts. "You're not saying-"

"She needs to go."

_Pause._

I press my ear closer to the door, my heart suddenly hammering in my chest.

"She's just a kid," Ralph comments lowly.

"Look, things are bad enough for us as it is. We don't need anymore expenses on top of this."

"Can't we take the time to think about this? We've only had her for a couple years and she's been doing fine so far. I mean, sure, she was late tonight, but-"

"It's not about that, Ralph!" Jennifer's shrill tone is enough to make me flinch and screw my eyes shut. "It's about cutting our costs!" She stops to take a deep breathe. "Things were fine when she first arrived, but we can't afford to have her under our roof anymore. And what if I lose my job? With just one income and the money we get by having her won't be enough to support all of us."

"Where is she supposed to go? We can't just kick her out."

"Social Services will find another place for her. She'll be fine." Their room goes silent for a few seconds, scuffling of shoes moving over to the bed. The mattress springs creak with weight. "Ralph, if we plan on moving back East with Jack like we always wanted, we have to start making some decisions," Jennifer tries to console him when he sighs. "And besides... she's not really ours."

"I know," Ralph responds like the words are being pulled out of him against his will. "You're right. I'll make the call tomorrow."

"Good."

I open my eyes slowly and pull my hand from my mouth, everything suddenly feeling heavy as wetness falls down my cheeks in warm rapid streaks. This is why they planned an extra place at the dinner table, why they accidentally left the kitchen light on, why they even bothered to take notice of my whereabouts in the first place. They were going to tell me that they didn't want me anymore, that they were sending me back. And in all the two long years of living with them, after holding onto hope that maybe they'd want to get to know me, spend time with me and make me feel apart of their life, and finally fill in that transition from Mr. and Mrs. Larsen to Mom and Dad - I always knew it. In the back of my mind, there was always that voice that said _'don't get comfortable_ '.

Not here. Not with them.

With unsteady legs, I retreat into my room and slam the door, so loud it makes the top of the frame shake slightly. I know they heard it, but it's nothing in comparison to the ache I feel in my chest - sharp and stinging, like a fish struggling to escape the bait hook that has pierced it's skin.

It shouldn't hurt so much.

But it does.

**DAY 5**

It takes four days for them muster up the guts to confront me about their "decision."

The weekend passes without a minute of comfortable closeness. Lately Ralph has been hanging around whichever room I happen to be in, taking up the doorway awkwardly and gazing in like he wants to chat, but has no idea where to start. We get along for the most part, or used to, I guess. Seeing him standing there like that with his briefcase in hand, work coat draped over one arm with this sad-dog expression on his face... it makes me wanna jump into a sinkhole. And when that happens, I just leave the room or walk out of the house all together without saying anything. I felt a little guilty about it the first time.

I don't anymore.

It's a Tuesday morning and I couldn't be anymore stony while I get ready for school. The house lies dormant; no sound of Jennifer's feet pounding in place as she practices her early morning aerobics before work or Ralph's annoying whistling while he shaves. They're usually up at the first blink of dawn and out the door, so for them to still be holed up in their room past seven thirty definitely arouses some suspicions. They must be arguing about how to break the news to me or contacting Social Services on the fastest way to get me out of here. I wonder how it will take for them to realize the walls aren't sound proof.

There's another hour until school starts. I take advantage of the empty kitchen and warm up a strawberry Pop-Tart in the toaster, my backpack zipped and slung over the back of the chair. A squatty portable radio resting between the flour jar and brown sugar plays a bunch of crazy guitarist metal type hits, the really loud kind you hear during cheesy action movies. I grab a plate from the cupboard and drop it onto the table with a clatter, not really feeling the need to beat around the bush anymore. If they don't want me anymore, why pretend like everything is okay and they created a "safe" and "nurturing environment" like what was promised in the signed documents? It's better to admit that they only saw the agreement as a cash sign and the reason I never skipped out during the night because the bed was comfortable and there was working running water.

Sometimes things fail in life. I wish I can say I'm used to it now, but I can't.

When their door upstairs squeak open and their footsteps come trumping down the stairs, I'm sitting at the table, elbows propped on the top (which drives Jennifer nuts) and idly pick apart pieces of Pop-Tart that went cold.

"Good morning, Hannah," Ralph acknowledges nicely.

"Hi," I say back without looking at either of them, crumbling pieces of bread between my thumb and pointer finger.

"There's something we'd like to discuss with you." He's talking in his professional 'take me serious' voice now. I better sit up straight.

"Turn off the music, please," Jennifer adds tersely, arms folded.

I get up without a word and click the _off_ button, blanketing the room in unbearable silence. A photo of a little boy stares at me from the back of the milk carton. The information box under his mug shot says he went missing two weeks ago.

"You've been with us for a while now..." Ralph observes, fiddling with his paisley printed tie before sticking his hands in his trouser pockets. "And while these past few years have been great... we think that maybe it's time for you to-" He pauses. "Expand your horizons."

Jennifer glares up her husband, unhappy with the sugar coated niceties. "Look, Hannah, things haven't been so hot for us here lately. Business has been plummeting since the beginning of Spring and Ralph could lose his job any day now. What we're trying to say is-"

"You want me to leave," I cut in, leaning back against the counter. "I know."

Ralph's eyes go wide as saucers. "You... you know?"

"Yeah, I overheard you two talking last night." The way they glance at each other makes anger boil hotly in my veins. Like _they_ were blindsided. Like _they_ were the ones tossed a grenade and were forced to find a way to not make it explode in their face. "It's fine. You didn't have to wait this long to tell me."

"Well, we just thought-"

"You can't afford to keep a foster kid anymore. I get it." I take the milk carton, close the flap shut and set it back on the shelf in the fridge. The picture of the missing boy burns a hole into me, like he's trying to tell me something, prevent me from making a mistake. "That's why you took one in the first place, wasn't it? Because they give you money for it."

"Hannah..."

The whole top compartment of the refrigerator shakes when I push the handle closed, making everything inside rattle around and click with a swift _smack_.

"I hope the next one pays you enough so they can stay," I say calmly, too clinically for someone who just found out they're unwanted and had to hear it all again half heartily from the people who swore they would make you feel at home. Now that's all starting to sound like fairy tales too, just like those stupid gemstones. "I have to go to school."

Ralph and Jennifer stand frozen in the kitchen entry, smoke practically steaming out of their heads from their brains short circuiting.

I flip the radio switch back on, sending music blasting at a deafening loud volume, before sliding my backpack over my shoulder and walking straight out of the house. I don't look back at them.

Not once.

On the route to school, there's a mob of people herded in front of the big bay window outside a shop that sells a bunch of used television sets and other broken gadgets nobody wants. Stacked on top of each other like Legos, are cheap Tvs playing the same news channel. Someone in the middle of the group yells at the owner inside to turn the volume up more. The middle aged guy inside hollers something back, but I don't catch it and try to pick up what's being said on the screen. An anchor woman shows video feed of three random places scattered throughout Santa Carla from a helicopter's point of view.

Three people went missing last night and local law enforcement have buzzed every part of the city for any sign of them.

They found nothing so far.

"Bunch of damn runaways," a man in a suit mutters, shaking his head. "Got nothing better to do than escape their problems. They'll come crawling back when they realize you can't run from being an adult. Watch, you'll see."

"How are we supposed to raise our children in this environment?" One woman pipes in, worry wrinkles pulling at the corner of her eyes. She brings a hand to her cheek and sighs solemnly. "We've got to have some sense of safety..."

"If you ask me, these good for nothing street rats are better off-"

Multiple voices break into conversation then, talking over others, arguing and debating about what could be causing these disappearances. Some think it's only kids and their pranks, or people who only wanted to leave without bearing through the questions. Others feel a different kind of dread. But whatever it is, it brings people together in ways it hasn't before.

I stay back toward the curb and watch as the Tv reporter explain that Santa Carla has one of the most steady chains of murders for over fifty years, in all of California.

"Murder capital of the world," a bleary eyed old man croaks, wearing a faded Hawaiian printed shirt and a rolled up blue banana tied around his forehead. He sips Root Beer from a dark brown bottle. "What a time it is to be alive, eh?"

I look up at him blankly once, then back at the Tvs before adjusting the strap on my shoulder and continuing on to school.

**THAT NIGHT**

At eight o'clock when Francie is held up on a business call over the phone, she covers the mouth piece with her palm and asks me if I can run to the video store real quick and return a tape she rented out last week. The person she's talking to doesn't know when to can it apparently. It's a fifteen minute walk on foot to and back from the store, maybe ten if I start jogging. The Boardwalk is overflowing with people now, so I know I'll have to play bumper car if I want to make it out the front door in one piece.

Francie smiles at me when I take the tape from her hand and tuck it inside my jean jacket.

I'm at her disposal.

The video store is kind of dead when I slip past the bright neon yellow doors. Only two people are browsing the titles and they don't seem very interested in what they see. Maria, the perky clerk, waits at the counter and smiles at everyone who passes by.

"Hello there, Hannah!" A deep neighborly voice says from beside the register. It's Max, the owner, who's pretty stiff on humor, but nice enough to like. "Came to do a bit of shopping?" He eyes the tape in my hands.

"Oh, no, this isn't mine," I answer, hoping I don't look like someone with robber's guilt (that's a thing, right?) and trying to sneak back in a stolen item. "I'm returning it for a friend."

"Well, that's generous of you," Max smiles, suspecting nothing. "I'll take that off your hands."

I wait as he punches in a few buttons on the register and prints out a receipt for Francie. A fluff of warm, soft fur brushes over my legs then and I glance down to see the top of Max's watchdog nudging his muzzle against my calf.

"Hey, Thorn." I give him a scratch behind his ear. "Being a good boy today?" He gapes up at me with those big coal black eyes of his and tilts his head to one side. He's kind of a moody little furball. Some days he'll growl at everyone and the next he's friendly and playful. Just his name is enough to send little kids running the other way.

Max chuckles when Thorn barks happily. "Looks like Thorn found a friend." He hands over the piece of paper along with an orange flavored lollipop. "It's on the house."

I smile at the gesture and take the candy. "Thanks, Max."

"You're very welcome, Hannah."

I wave goodbye to both him and Maria before heading for the exit, wondering if Ethel's will be nothing but a pile of ashes by the time I get back.

"Thorn, get back here," Max's stern voice rings out again from the counter. The soft _pat pat pat_ of paws against the tiled floor and a low nasally whine makes me stop and glance over my shoulder, seeing Thorn trailing after me with this watery look in his eyes. Max snaps his fingers for him to come to his side. "You can't go with her."

I giggle and rub the scruff of fur above his nose, feeling a little bad for him. "Sorry, boy. Francie will kill me if I bring a dog in her store." And a dirty one at that.

"I don't know what's gotten into him," Max says apologetically, coming around the corner. He studies his white mutt with a frown. "He isn't usually like this."

"It's okay," I tell him, ruffling the top of the dog's head. "Maybe he's just lonely."

 _He isn't the only one,_ I think to myself before shouldering the door open and walking out into the crisp night air. Pinkish mist from the carousel fades past the Boardwalk sign and there's at least two dozen people clustering in front of it, fighting their way in. Some of them are Surf Nazis. They mostly like to take up the beach and remote camp sites away from the carnival. Leave it to them to infest other areas with their obnoxious laughter and can-to-head crushing thing. Not all of them are as bad as their leader Greg, but their clan isn't exactly a beacon for undiscovered brainiacs. They look like they live in a trash compactor and wash their hair with beer. It's enough motivation to make me practically run all the way back to Ethel's.

When I make it to the door, Francie is still inside on the phone. She smiles and waves me in urgently through the glass window.

"Hi," a feminine voice says softly in the distance.

I whirl around and give a tiny shriek, making that really mortifying hand wringing gesture thing when one gets the bejeezus scared out of them. Standing not too far away... is the girl who bought the rose quartz gemstone. She looks exactly the same, except her skirt has small eye sized mirrors all over the waist band and the shawl that she also purchased is wrapped loosely around her bare arms. Her wildly curly hair swirls around her neck from the ocean breeze.

"It's you," I realize out loud and feel even more stupid that I almost screamed in her face. My heartbeat slows and I take a deep breath, twisting the plastic covered lollipop in my hands. I shake my head as if to clear my thoughts. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize-"

The girl takes two urgent steps forward. "I wanted to thank you for the stone. It's been helping me with... everything. I know you don't believe in it, but..." She trails off, her gaze dropping to the ground. There it is again. That same gloomy expression. It hasn't changed a bit since the first time I saw her. Whatever difference she feels, it's only in a place where she knows and not on the outside where I can see it.

A weird tingle encases my spine and I'm not sure what it's from. "Yeah, no problem" I reply, shivering from the cold, then peer over my shoulder at the store window. "Did you want to come inside and look at more? We just got a new shipment of them in."

She shakes her head and walks backwards towards the Boardwalk. "I can't stay." Her sight darts to the right like she's expecting someone to pop up. Her fingers clutch tighter at the shawl, making her knuckles turn bone white. Paranoid.

Scared.

A confusing amount of disappointment surges in my chest. "Are you gonna come back?"

Our eyes lock. Her brown irises reflect misery and abandonment. I know the feeling; I really do.

"I don't know." Her voice is just a murmur.

Then she turns on her heel and loses herself the crowd.

I stand there for a second, fingers crinkling the plastic corners of the candy stick and watch the spot where she floated into move around like one huge glob of torn jeans and spikey dyed hair. A Surf Nazi with bleach blonde highlights takes a messy swig from his can of beer and says something derogatory to the girl in a denim mini skirt in front of him. Then a smaller guy beside her spins around and starts throwing punches. Blood squirts into the air and that's when people start cheering. Normally, I would stick around just to see Mr. Beasley toss them out of the Boardwalk, but all that's on my mind is the gemstone girl and her borderline freaky appearances out of thin air. A knot in my gut tells me she came for more than just a simple 'thank you', but she got scared away by something. Something I couldn't see or understand.

And that's what rattles me.

I go back into the store in time to see Francie free of the receiver glued to her ear. She sighs in exaggeration and goes about how hard it was to get the woman off the other line and convince her that our fragrance oils weren't safe for, uh... "erotic purposes" (her words, not mine). There's still an hour left until closing, so I wait behind the register and listen as Francie drones on, resting my chin on my hands. Sudden flashes of light speed by the door then, like high beams on a car, so fast it doesn't click right away what they are. One after another goes by, making me jerk up slightly and grip the edge of the counter. Several streaks of ink black, blondish hues and steel, all going by in blurry shapes of four. The roaring of engines drowns out the meditation taps that plays on repeat overhead.

Motorbikes.

Nothing abnormal about that. Although I could have sworn I saw a hint of long brown curls and sparkly mirrors on the passenger riding by first.

Just like the girl with the gemstone.

**DAY 10**

What Ralph and Jennifer left out of the whole "surprise, we don't care about you or your future" talk is that it will take days, weeks even, for Social Services to put in the paperwork for another fostering and find a family who's interests matches my description. And if my eighteenth birthday passes by the time we hear back from them, I won't be eligible for guardianship anymore. The group homes in California are filled up, so that means I have no choice but to stay here until they can find somewhere else for me to stay. That's comforting, I guess. It could be worse. At least they're not flat out kicking me into the street with nothing but the clothes on my back.

But now that Ralph and Jennifer are giving up all responsibility for me, the tuition sum they saved in their bank that's meant for college isn't obtainable since they've decided to send me back. They never bothered to put in a trust fund with my name on it, so it's going to stay stagnant in their account until they eventually move away. I keep telling myself that they just forget, that they meant to file it under me and it just happened to slip their minds because of work. But two years... two whole years they've had me and they never did.

 _She's not really ours,_ Jennifer had said. Maybe this is their way of making it clear.

I should be fuming because of this, screaming at them, crying, asking what I did to be unwanted, throwing dishes at the walls, but... no. I don't feel any of this. Maybe if this had happened years ago when I was younger, when my resolve was weaker and when I still hung onto hope that I could live a life I always wanted, a life normal kids have... maybe I'd feel something. Or maybe it's all still there, under the surface, clear and diluted where I can't recognize it.

And something is waiting to break it so it will spill over.

**DAY 15**

I'm rarely at the house anymore.

When not at school, Ethel's or sleeping, I stay out all afternoon with a few friends and we wander all around Santa Carla, from the local mall to the late night bonfires the Surf Nazis sometimes host. But we don't really stick around long for those. Most of them just pass out around the dying embers from too much beer. With graduation only weeks away, the Senior class want to spend it with as much fun as they can. Some of them plan to go to college and will spend the summer away in preparation for it, like my friends. One of their parents even bought them a car as an early celebration present.

Being with them helps me. For a few hours of the day, I can pretend like nothing has changed; like the situation was all in my head and soon, I'll be packing up the trunk of a car and on my way to college with the rest of them. And as I close my eyes and lay against the warm beach sand, letting the rolling waves drown out my thoughts... I swear it's true.

But when it gets dark, the bright lights come on, and the people and their noise get louder... I remember that it isn't.

My friends won't be here forever.

But I'll be stuck here for who knows how long.

**DAY 16**

One night, when most of the city has gone to sleep, one by one my friends say goodnight and divide off towards their neighborhoods. I watch from the sidewalk as their forms shrink smaller and smaller against the street lamps until they disappear completely behind their doors, leaving me alone with nowhere to go. It's almost midnight. Hardly anyone is in the streets at this hour and if they are, they're tweakers sleeping on the sidewalk or people who like being out this late. Walking around Santa Carla can be creepy like this, but you just have to know the places to avoid. Which is most, actually...

After ambling through most of the nice neighborhoods and even the ratty ones, I suddenly find myself sitting alone on a bench with it's back facing the beach, close enough to hear the waves, and anxiously tap the heels of my shoes against the pavement. It's so dead quiet. I can't hear anything except the faint whirring of a lone car miles away or the dull ringing in my own ears. A street lamp hanging directly behind the bleacher shines over the seating like a spotlight, creating a big halo that ends right at the curb. For the longest time, I stay there, hands clamped between my knees, and just think. About anything.

About everything.

And before I know it, reality of my life sinks in, slowly and dully, like a brick on top of honey. My eyesight begins to blur with warm wetness and I sniffle as tears stream down my cheeks. I wipe them away with the back of my hand, a droplet splashing on my jeans. It's all still there. The anger towards Ralph and Jennifer, the sadness of what I could have had, the hankering for something that never will be. Shoving it down and acting like it wasn't there or that I somehow matured since leaving the group home didn't really help me get over it at all. It just prevented me from growing up and finally getting out. I don't know if I ever will.

So I sit there and just cry it all out, until I'm tired and drained from it all and can't do it anymore.

That's when I feel her. Like a breeze against the nape of my neck or someone running a scarf along my cheek. A quiet, but solidified presence.

The girl with the gemstone.

She walks beside me quietly, hair billowing behind her and sits without saying a word. The tassel ended shawl she bought at Ethel's is wrapped around her shoulders. She doesn't look at me dead-on at first; she stares out at the streets and turns her head a little to see the sand caked on the stairs get blown away by the wind. The last time I saw her she had this anxious, distressed look on her face. Now it's a complete one eighty. She's never looked more peaceful and calm.

I don't know how it happens, but somehow, I find myself pouring everything out to her. How I felt since being taken in by the Larsens, the damage of discovering what they really thought about me and everything in between; what really matters and what doesn't. She doesn't laugh or look of me as I'm the result of defunct charity. All she sees is just me. Whoever that's supposed to be. It gets to the point that in all of my blabbing, we move from the bench to the beach and sit near a clean spot away from the striped towels, different colored buckets and other personal items that are always left behind by families and their kids. Sometimes you can even find sandcastles that haven't been washed away by the shore yet.

The water looks as dark as the sky from this angle. A reflective streak of blueish white ripples down the middle of the waves from the moon, clear of any clouds. Halfway out to sea lies a bright red surfboard, bobbing up and down as if the person on top of it had just fallen off. Things I haven't bothered to notice before stand out now.

After the tears dry against my cheeks, I take a deep breath and curl my knees up to my chest, gazing out at the water. The girl doesn't say anything right away once I'm done venting, but her fingers do tighten around her shawl.

Then she smiles.

She tells me her name is Star.

**DAY 20**

That's not the last I see of Star.

Almost every night after that, she shows up outside of the shop after it closes and walks with me back to Ralph and Jennifer's. Well... as far as the street leading to the boardwalk ends, which isn't very far at all. And sometimes, when I don't feel like going home at all, she spends a few hours with me and we retreat to quieter areas of Santa Carla where we can talk, just me and her. She'd tell me a little about her old life and in return, I'd share some stories about the days where I lived in the group home before being taken in by the Larsens. She seems to enjoy hearing about that, as boring and simplistic as it really is.

And almost always, on the way home, she stops at the sight of nearing neighborhood, glances behind her and says she has to go. I don't question why. Having her around, even for a little while, is nice enough.

Still, I can't seem to shake the feeling that something is really, _really_ weird.

**DAY 26**

All my friends are gone.

Summer has just started, which means the Boardwalk will be busier than ever and a new influx of customers will swarm the store. At least that's what Francie believes. Personally, I don't think the average young adult would trade in a ticket to the Giant Dipper for a moderately priced bar of jasmine scented soap, but Francie has been setting ridiculously high goals for the shop and I'd feel bad telling her it's impractical, so I don't say anything at all. She's bound to figure that out on her own. I hope it's before she ends up on the street holding out a cup for change. Then where else would I work?

On a Saturday night, the shop is dead weight as I stand behind the glass counter with my chin in my hands and watch the people walk by. There's a concert going on at the beach. Sometimes they build a mini stage there to house different sorts of performers. There are no seats, only the smooth soft grains and the slope of the staircase where people can stand around like a tiny Coliseum and look at the stage lights. I can hear the echo of singing and a saxophone playing. Curiosity trickles through me, but I can't leave the store unattended.

Sighing, I pull my head away from my palm, slightly stiff from being in that position for so long. There's only another hour until closing and I doubt there's going to be a stampede of a hundred customers coming through that door anytime soon. Not to make the day's goal anyways. Francie always says that closing early should only be an option in cases of emergency.

Boredom sounds like one of them.

Rattling the keys from my pocket, I blow out the tester candles, check the back door to see if it's secure, then turn off all the lights and lock up behind me. The bass and buzzing of the saxophone is three times louder in my ears now that I'm not confined in a space where I hear nothing but cello and flute music. It sounds a lot cooler free from the overlap of new age instrumentals. A part of me wants to wander down and check it out, but the other half is dying for a nap. But I would have to go home for that. And home is the farthest thing down on my list of priorities.

Sighing, I turn toward the sidewalk, coming face to face with a pair of deep brown eyes and curls.

"Star?"

She smiles faintly. "Hannah." Halfway hidden beside her, holding a fistful of her frilly skirt, is a little boy. His hair is slightly shaggy and light brown, wisps of it hanging in his eyes. His tiny form is sheathed in a dark grey, military style-like jacket. He looks up at me with timid eyes as Star rests her arm around his small shoulders, hand laying limp at the junction of his chest and sleeved forearm.

"Oh, is this your brother?" I ask.

"No," Star replies strangely, glancing down at him and I wait for her to explain the connection, but only puts a hand on his back. "This is Laddie." The kid takes a step back when she tries to make him come forward. "Laddie, this is Hannah. She's our friend."

The way she says 'our friend' makes my brows pull together, as if she's trying to convince the boy to trust me. For whatever reason.

"Hey, cutie," I say to the kid, feeling a weird sense of deja-vu. He face does look familiar...

"Hi," Laddie answers back shyly. It's a start.

"Got stuck with babysitting, huh?" I murmur up to Star.

She smirks. "Kind of. I was going to take him to see the concert. You should come with us."

"Right now?"

She nods.

"Well... I _was_ going to go home, but-" I pause at her near pleading eyes. The little twig in me that was hellbent on trekking back home to my comfortable covers breaks in two. "I guess I have time."

Star smiles.

And off we go.

The Boardwalk is loaded with more people as Laddie walks eagerly ahead of us, staying within sight at Star's request. At this point, the music is only growing louder and attracts audience from every part of the city. There's Surf Nazis, frizzy haired rockers, preteens and regular office people who look like they haven't had a day off in ten years. There's almost always some kind of altercation at concerts like this, with a Surf Nazi picking a fight with the wrong person or the mosh pits getting too violent. It's not really what I had in mind for a night out, but it beats staying at home, I guess. Now I won't be able to say I had a boring weekend.

We're so close to the show, I can see the bobbles of head, lights and the bulky shape of a guy onstage from a block away, past where the beach intervenes between the rows of game hubs, stores, and rides. Most of the space surrounding the platform looks filled, but there seems to be enough room near the stairs for the three of us, unless Star wants to go down to the sand.

I'm about to ask her when she freezes in place. Laddie also comes to a jilting halt.

Then I hear it. The roar of motorbikes, surrounding us so quickly, I don't realize it until I'm staring into my reflection in a bright shiny model. I slowly look up at who it belongs to. Pale blue eyes and spikey white blonde hair make me take an involuntary step back.

"Who's your friend, Star?" Blue Eyes says, his voice low and threatening.

Star hesitates, swallowing thickly. She glances at me, hand coming to brush against my own. There's a trace of desperation in her movements. "This is Hannah. We're going to the concert."

Blue Eyes raises an eyebrow at her words and I realize that what he expected was for her to ask him for permission. And she didn't.

She asserted it for herself.

Blue Eyes leans an arm over the handle bars of his bike. His icy gaze never leaves Star. "That so?"

Star shifts under the heat of his stare, but stands her ground, despite being outnumbered by three other guys. The rest of them are blonde haired, like Blue Eyes, except for a tall muscular one who's hair is so dark it makes the night sky look lighter than snow. They sit idly on their bikes, broad and impenetrable as a barbed wire fence.

"David, please," Star says through gritted teeth after a moment.

 _David_ , the name echos in my head and I watch as the sky blue eyed one slips a cigarette stub from the back of his ear, take it between his pale full lips and light it with a match, hands cupping the flame. He exhales slowly and smoke blows out above our heads.

Then he smirks.

"Go."

Star blinks, like she can't believe what he just said. "What?" Her voice is faint.

" _Go_ ," David repeats, firmly this time. He breathes in deep from the lit cigarette then hold it between his gloved first and middle finger. "Before I change my mind."

Star hesitates, breathing mutely through her parted lips. Laddie, huddling close to the front of her legs, looks up at David with fearful eyes and bunches the material of her skirt in his small fist. I study them both and something warm pangs in my chest. For the first time, I witness what it's like it be protected, cared for.

"Come on, Laddie," Star says suddenly, putting her hand on his shoulder and taking my hand at the same time. She pulls me swiftly through the gap between David's bike and the right side of the sidewalk where it continues down to the concert. She squeezes my skin so tightly, my fingertips flush a pale red.

I resist the urge to glance over my shoulder to check if they're still there, but my back heats up from the heat of a certain pair of eyes. They must be already watching us leave.

"Who were they?" I murmur once we're a good distance from them where I know they can't hear us. A beat passes in silence. "Star?" I peer at her profile.

She doesn't answer. Her grip on my hand only tightens.

When we reach the concert pit, the shirtless guy on stage is starting into a new song. His torso is so bulging with so much muscles it makes his head look disproportionate to the rest of his body. I stand at the top of the horde and skim the moshing crowd of people moving crazily to the music. There's no space left near the ground level on the sand, but over on our right where the stairs are, is just enough room for us to move over to without feeling confined. Star keeps looking over her shoulder for something, holding Laddie's shoulders tight to her, as if she's scared someone is going to come and whisk them away. I want to ask if her it's about the four biker gang we ran into earlier, but something tells me bringing it up will just upset her, so I leave it alone.

I sink through the crowd, down to the beach and slip past moving bodies over to the open space I noticed before, hearing Star and Laddie follow.

The drone of a saxophone blazes through my eardrums as I cut it past people who seriously need a barbershop and up to the steps where the view is perfect. Star's sparkly skirt jingles from the jewels swishing together when she trails after my footsteps, being led by the hand from Laddie, and glides up to stand beside me. She smiles and brushes hair away from her temple.

"This is nice," I admit to her when a particularly exciting part of the song fades in.

"It is," Star agrees, her eyes bright.

She sways next to me as the performance goes on, enjoying the beat. A strong wave of wind rustles my hair around my neck and I can't help but shiver in my worn out jean jacket. When half the song is over, my sight drifts down along the mass of different colored heads. They rock aggressively against the bonfires, hoisting a few onto their shoulders and even a few kids pop their tiny faces through taller legs, holding balloons. I take in every one, every mop of sandy hair or jet black strands. One in particular makes me freeze. A guy, probably no older than twenty-one, stands by the nearest fire pit and stares holes into our direction. I know right off the bat it's not me he's looking at. His eyes are too unfocused from where I'm standing.

It's Star.

"Star," my voice comes out as a whisper and I think that she doesn't hear me until I see her expression go blank. "Don't look now, but a guy down there is staring at you."

Right after the words leave my mouth, she turns slightly to gaze down at the audience around her, and her eyes land right on the dude who looks like he's in a trance. Then she looks away swiftly.

"You see him?" I say lowly.

She nods stiffly, bringing her hands together in a clap.

"I think he likes you."

"Shh." Star's features are twisted tightly in caution, but the corner of her lips curl up slightly, making me giggle.

The concert goes for a few more minutes and as the time passes, I grow more and more aware of the young guy below gaping wide eyed at Star, who shifts every once and a while from the intensity of his gaze. It's pretty creepy, considering for the past five minutes he's found nothing else to look at except her, but a part of me can't really blame him. She _is_ pretty.

But right when I'm just getting into the music, Star whirls around, grabs me by the hand and yanks me up the stairs to the sidewalk. Her movement quickens with each second. Once our feet hit the pavement, she loops her arm through mine and we walk briskly down to the Boardwalk entrance. Laddie is a few steps behind us.

"What's wrong?" I ask her, completely caught off guard. "Was it that guy back there?"

She shakes her head.

"He definitely liked you."

"No, he didn't," she denies quietly.

I look at her funny. "You're so blind."

Again, Star doesn't respond right away. She keeps her eyes focused ahead at the arched entryway shaped like a clown's mouth, as if it's a beacon for safety. "We should go," she finally says after a minute and drapes her free right arm around Laddie's shoulders so he's walking closer with us.

I don't question her about the rash decision to leave. Her presence alone give me a strange sense of calm and bringing up Stalker Guy back there might make her more crabby and I don't want that.

We continue walking down the Boardwalk path, arm in arm with Laddie skipping on ahead as we pass game booths with the toy guns, the candy machines, and numerous body piercing tables. Our pace slows as we get closer to the entrance and by the way Star pulls me close to her side, it's like she's eager to make the time that we have last a little more. As though this will be our last.

 _Just another weird feeling_ , I tell myself and try to let it roll off my back.

Once we reach the blinking Boardwalk sign, Star stops in her tracks and unravels her arm from mine. She turns halfway toward me, glancing past the exit briefly before meeting my eyes.

Her voice is urgent. "Stay here, okay?"

"What?"

"Don't walk out with me. I don't want them to see you."

"Who are you talking-"

"Hannah, please." Her soft hand grabs my wrist, thumb pressing into my pulse point in a silent plea. Her eyes fill to the brim with water, as if all the times she had walked home with me, when boredom and loneliness sneaked in like a bad cold and she was there to keep me company, was all meant to lead up to this moment. To shield me. To prevent harm.

But from what?

"Yeah, okay," I nod lamely after a second.

That sad smile pulls at the corners of Star's lips again. "Thank you." She brings me into a hug, arms wrapping around my back as people float by us. A lock of her brown curls brush against my cheek when she leans away, fingertips grazing down my forearm wistfully before taking Laddie by the hand and guiding him out the Boardwalk boundary.

I wave at the kid when he looks back at me and smile when he lifts his little hand to return the gesture.

As I watch them walk through the tide, the direction of where they're heading becomes more clear. Round, black wheels peek through the mess of denim covered legs; shiny bikes outshining anything surrounding them that can be considered remotely fancy. But what makes my breath hitch, is the dark clothed riders mounting them.

Star sweeps over to Blue Eyes, David, I remember his name being, and climbs onto the back of his bike.

"Hey." Someone taps my shoulder. I turn my head and see the guy from the concert, the one who was leering at Star standing over me. His gaze is glued to her figure on the bike. "Do you know that girl?" He inclines his chin toward Star.

 _He must have seen me here with her_ , I think to myself, yet miraculously don't become creeped out by this realization. There isn't much that freaks me out anymore in Santa Carla. Or at least I think so.

I alternate my gaze from Mystery Guy to the spot where the bikes are parked. My stomach instantly lurches, like a spirit just entered and decided to play Twister with my innards. Star clings to David's bike and looks almost longingly at the Mystery Guy looming over my shoulder. But David...

For the first time since I saw him, David is staring at me.

"I think I do," I say to Mystery Guy's question and wonder just exactly what I got myself into by befriending Star.

Then one by one, as the sport bikes fire up and peel off, I turn away from the scene and let the crowd swallow me up again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This idea has been on my mind for a while, so I thought I'd try to make something out of it and give it a spin to see what people think. I hope it wasn't too long or boring, but I wanted to establish a friendship with Star first before the events of the movie happened.
> 
> So what do you think? Is it worth adding more? Let me know! If not, I could always leave it as it is.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Take care, guys.
> 
> Soundtrack: "When Doves Cry" by Prince


	2. santa carla summer blues

**DAY 27**

_I lost my friends. I lost my home, my goals in life and most of my motivation. But hey, despite all this, I met a new friend, a mute kid and a biker gang that gives me the creeps. Yeah, only I would be so lucky._

**W** ith the brown leather journal propped against my knees, I look up at the sound of a car door shutting in the driveway, hand pausing in mid scribble. It's been almost three whole weeks since the Ralph and Jennifer revelation and they haven't spoken a word to me about it. Or about anything for that matter. Ralph doesn't even hang around that much anymore and attempt to make half hearted communication. Either he realized his efforts are fruitless or Jennifer wants them both to act like I never came here in the first place. Both reasons are fine with me. Whatever makes them sleep easy at night and my final days spent here go quicker.

I flip the diary closed, set it on the empty space next to me and climb off my bed to peek out the window. Pulling into the street in her recently washed Buick, is Jennifer. Ralph still leaves for his job early in the morning before I'm awake, but since Jennifer's business has been dwindling, her hours have been cut as a result. So now, she doesn't leave the house until mid morning or early afternoon. I wouldn't have spent nearly all day in my room if it wasn't for that. But she's always been more trickier to ignore than Ralph.

I turn back to face my unkempt bedroom, wondering if I should finally make that trip to the local library to return all the books I thought I would need for college or tidy up the various CDs scattered around. There's always the journal to settle back into. I've been cooped up in this room for so long, I almost forgot what fresh outdoor air smells like and how the warm the sun feels on my face. Being under this roof makes reality feel weirdly altered, like diners in the middle of the night or empty hospital wings. Not exactly something you want for a place you should call 'home'.

Fishing my white Keds from under the bed skirt, I tie them on, grab my house key from the dresser and walk out the door.

At two pm in the afternoon, the Boardwalk is mild with paying customers as most people are either at work or busy in different parts of town. The ones who are out are mothers with their young kids and the typical teen group enjoying the peak of summer. Even the Surf Nazis haven't reared their drunken heads yet. They usually come out when the more civilized crowd break through rush hour traffic - around sun set. They're probably busy sleeping off the hangovers from all the previous nights of binge drinking.

I trudge down the spacious aisles of the Boardwalk, sauntering past the kids playing at the water gun booth and head for the comic book shop right in the center strip. It miraculously still manages to stay open after so many customers being driven off by the two rambunctious twirps who run the place. There's hardly anyone when I walk in except for an older grimy looking couple slouching by the Tv. The two younger boys amble through the aisles, a comic in their hands as they occasionally glance up from their lashes to staredown whoever happens to set foot in their establishment.

In this instance, it's me.

I pluck a Wonder-Woman issue from the rack and casually flip through it as footsteps gradually make their way up to me. Then it gets quiet.

"You reek of undead," a deep monotonous voice points out from next aisle over. I look up and meet the tumultuous gaze of the shaggy haired kid with the patchy bandana tied across his forehead.

"Is that a perfume brand?" I ask indifferently, refusing to be scared off by their antics.

"That sounds like something a newborn would say."

"Or a succubus," comes another deadpan remark at my other side. Standing there, is the one with the straighter, dark hair. He has the look of a budding serial killer in his eyes.

"I don't know-"

"You think she's one of them?" The one with the dark hair says over me to the bandana kid.

"-what you're-"

"No sunglasses. Eyes aren't bloodshot. Skin isn't pale."

"-talking about."

The one with the fashion accessory fingers a lock of my hair. "Frizz is a dead giveaway."

"Hey!" I swat his touch away, self consciously peering down at the tendrils that hang naturally in slight waves.

"Provoked aggression. That's some serious results of iron deficiency, man." The dark haired kid crosses his skinny arms like he's a drill instructor.

The other one nods in agreement. "For sure."

Whatever the Surf Nazis have been doping up on, they've obviously been passing some around to these two kids. I've heard many personal accounts of less than amiable encounters to what Santa Carla now knows them as the Frog brothers, but seeing it for myself puts it into a different perspective. They really are crazy.

"Here's the situation, Gothilocks," The bandana kid drawls. He reaches into the back pocket of his faded blue jeans and takes out a rolled up comic of a squad of three multi colored haired schoolgirls wielding pom poms with blood dripping down their chins; their eyes are a bright cherry red, glowing with feral hunger. The title reads **When Vampire Cheerleaders Attack!** "This isn't your usual Teen Beat Magazine," the kid goes on. "But considering the circumstances, this might just interest you."

My gaze flickers between the two siblings (or so they say; frankly these two just seem like two escaped juveniles who banded together) for a full minute, wondering just how this town manages to exceed my expectations of abnormalities on a daily basis, before muttering a confused and slightly garbled, "Huh?"

"And just so you know, don't mistake our mercy for compassion because you're a chick. We've seen your kind in action - we know how to play the game," the bandana one pledges. "And next time, we won't hold back."

"You can stop with the jokes now. I'm not buying it."

"This is no joke, dude."

"And quit calling me dude." My shoulders droop with a sigh and I unceremoniously toss the Wonder-Woman comic back on the rack. "If you wanted me leave, you could have just said so."

As I begin to rove on out of the shop, their footfalls follow me step by step.

"Last chance, She-Ra. Once you walk out of here, there's no going back."

"You'll be trapped in the arms of the blood sucking Adams Family."

"Forever."

Their creepy words makes me practically book it straight out of the comic shop, worried that they'd give a relentless chase down the strip, spraying a squirt bottle at me with what they'd claim to be holy water. But surprisingly, I hear nothing. When I look over my shoulder, all I see are the backs of heads and approaching strangers who don't look murderous at all. Huh. That was beyond weird. Maybe it was all a ruse to get me out of their store for some other reason. Well, whatever the motive, it worked.

Freaks.

Closer to evening time now, I brush past the fresh crowd of carnival goers and make my way to the beach. A married couple with their toddler bounces a big red ball back and forth between each other by the lifeguard tower. Surfers out beyond the waves ride the tide like they're part dolphin. One wipes out in mid water rise. I lean my arms over the wall separating the beach line from the sidewalk and gaze out at the pale blue reflection.

It feels like it's been years since I've seen my friends, tasted real high school cafeteria food, smelled the murky air of a filled lecture room. All these things that I hated before, that left me feeling drained every night before bed, are now what create these sources of nostalgia and longing in me. A slice of normality, structure and purpose. I didn't think I'd feel so lost without it. How do you get something like that back? Is that even possible to replace, something that never truly existed to begin with? Maybe college would have been the answer to those questions, but that option is long gone now.

Just like everything else.

**DAY 28**

It's the beginning of July. 

What had gradually started out as a promising year full of possibility and fresh slates has turned into diluted hours of continuous sunshine and contrived seasonal spirit; some mornings I find myself laying under my bed sheets, watching the walls as daylight slowly makes it's way above the clouds from the window behind me, it's bright reflection seeping past the blinds to make long streaks of yellow dance against the uniform white wallpaper. Sometimes I stretch my arm out and let it hang over the edge of the bed to feel it's warmth, like I'm reaching for the edge of a bell jar that won't raise up and let me inside it's bubble. Other times, I turn away from it all and create my own world, hidden underneath mounds of worn out blankets and tattering quilts.

The only thing keeping me sloshing through the boring, uneventful days of summer, carnival rides, and police sirens is the prospect of hanging out with Star every night after Ethel's closes shop. That's where I've been spending most of my time lately, when I'm not coasting from place to place just to pass a couple hours or worse yet, upstairs in my bedroom, staring at the ceiling or counting the cars that drive down the neighborhood from my window. Every once in a while I'll even go down to the Surf Nazi's designated chill out spot by the beach and visit an old high school friend.

Or high school dropout more like. His name is Aaron. During the beginning of Junior semester, Surf Nazi leader Greg got his claws into him and convinced him attend one of their infamous bonfires. One casual night of beer drinking became two, then three, and then four. Before anyone knew it, he stopped showing up to class. His test papers, either unmarked or entirely wrong, stamped with an **F**. The more his academic grades and attendance started to plummet, the higher his tolerance to heavy liquor seemed to increase. It was a sad thing; I don't think anyone expected that from him. I guess that goes to show you just don't know what anyone is capable of, including how much they can lose. He's still a good friend, despite who he associates himself with and somehow still manages to not completely lose all hope for himself. Ever since his parents kicked him out, I see him from time to time in the street and whenever he catches sight of me, he grins like we can just shared a class together the other day.

Last time when the Surfers held a bonfire and a random member passed me a red solo cup filled with who knows what, Aaron snatched it from my hand, swirled the contents around a little, then took a cautious sip to see if it was safe to drink. And surprisingly enough, it was. Even after giving everything up, whether he really wanted it or not, and seemingly enjoying the scraps he lived off of now, he still cared. He made peace with life and the shards it put in his hands; unusable, but still beautiful. And he looked happy.

I wish I could be, too.

But instead, I wait. That's the constant in my life. Waiting for something, someone; always. For what, I don't even know, but it's like a chain around my ankle that I don't remember putting on or even having the key to, and the one thing that was able to set me free doesn't exist anymore. I don't know how I let it sink this way. I told myself I would pick myself up after a certain point, that I wouldn't let them win, that no matter what happens it'd all work out. Some days I wake up, see the shining sun and believe every inch of it.

Then the night creeps in.

And that all goes away.

**MIDNIGHT**

When the summer air cools off, I retreat from the humid house, away from the obnoxious soundtrack of _Saturday Night Fever_ playing on TV, and sit on the quiet front steps of my porch. The occasional brightly lit car chugs slowly down the neighborhood street, but other than that, all is soundless. The lights of the Boardwalk have long powered down and from this angle, it's definitely weird seeing the Giant Dipper sign and ferris wheel derelict. Even in the silence, I can still hear the faint lullaby tone of the carousel humming in my ear, like a mother would to her sleeping baby. It pulls me away from the familiarity of the patio and before I realize it, I'm standing up and walking past the front gate.

The sidewalk lamps guide me.

With my hands in my jean jacket pockets, I stroll past the lines and lines of dark homes, the buzzing crickets and the faraway catcalls of wandering drunk homeless men. Random bikes and kids' toys are left out on various curbs and in front of people's lawns. The epitome of summer activity; it's not as exciting as I remember from last year.

After about ten minutes, the bench near the beach where the dots first connected between Star and I comes into view. The single lamp post behind it is lit up, but the light bulb must be going out, as every few seconds it flashes dark before coming back on again. The surrounding space is entirely pitch black. I gaze at it for a moment like it's an exhibit in an art museum before plopping down with a sigh. There's nothing to accompany me here except the wind that rustles fallen noticeboard papers and the gradual blinking of a star in the sky. At least now I don't have to hear _The Bee Gees_ music filtering in from the kitchen window.

As I sit there in the dead of night, the back of my mind can't help but drift to Star and where she could be. It feels like it's been years since I saw her first step into Ethel's, looking like she just fell from a dreamcatcher. It feels even longer that we were here in this exact spot, where I took out the deepest set knives in my wounds and let her see them bleed and her presence alone made them sew together. I never thought one person's friendship, as small as it is, could affect me like this. After losing practically everything, I figured it'd be some time before everything would click into place again - or when I would grow the desire to have those things back and feel safe with them. Why bother if all they do is disappear at some point?

It's bound to happen again, that much I know. You would think having this as a never-ending presence in my head would make me come to terms with the situation, but it doesn't.

All it brings is many blue days.

**DAY 29**

One evening after the shop closes, I sit by the curb closest to the Boardwalk in hopes of talking to Star. It's been nearly a week now since that beach side concert. Her nightly appearances were never ones of consistence, but given that time is stretching unbearably long without her usual visits, I can't help but feel unhinged. So I stay there for a while, anticipating a glimpse of her sheer skirts and ringlet curls to travel through the crowd at any second.

Hours pass.

She never comes.

**DAY 30**

Still no Star.

**DAY 31**

The video store has a new clerk. I meet her on a day where traffic is slow at Ethel's and I decide to go out for some fresh air on my fifteen minute break. Conversion is slightly better there, but when I come inside to browse, there's less than ten customers in the shop. That's still considered busy for a Thursday morning. I flip through the selection of video tapes, finding no other way to spend some free time than to catch up with the locals. As usual, Max is never here during opening hours and weirdly enough, neither is Maria today. It's just the new hire standing at the counter, looking busy, but a little out of place; especially when younger, loud kids come in. Despite this, she still manages to smile and talk to them all like they're her own children.

Like the typical adolescent, some kids aren't particularly nice to elders. Her expression falters uneasily when the kids use lingo that generally soar over most adult's heads, but she remains pleasant as one can be while in the face of disrespect. I feel bad for her, but I can't think of anything better to do than buy a handful of those lollipops Max gives out for a few cents. She puts them all in a little white bag as I dig inside my jean pockets for quarters and dump them on the counter. One accidentally spirals out of control and rolls off onto the floor.

She smiles at me after I stoop down to pick it up and says her name is Lucy.

On the way back to Ethel's, I open the bag by the cutout holes and peer inside, wondering how I let myself waste almost a whole dollar on sweets that will just rot my teeth out. Junk food doesn't really appeal to me like it does to some people who can get wired off a pixie stick, unless you count chugging down a can of Coke at six in the morning when your boss wants you to come in an hour earlier than usual. It feels like my bloodstream runs on cola half the time now.

When I walk back inside the shop, Francie is finishing up a business call and hangs up as the door _dings_ shut. She smirks at my approaching figure and eyes the treasure swinging in my right hand. "What's this?" She asks after I grab a fistful of lollipops and deposit them on the glass counter in front of her. She studies them closely when I don't answer. "For me?"

I nod, unwrapping a red one for myself. The crinkling of plastic sound like knuckles popping.

"Well, aren't you a peach." Francie opens her taupe colored shoulder bag and stuffs the candy inside. Knowing her, she'll probably hoard them for a later date. "I think I'll keep you after all."

I roll my eyes, stick a lollipop to the side of my mouth, and trudge to the backroom to get started on shipment.

**THAT NIGHT**

After my shift ends, the sun has already set. Since the store has been opening an hour before our usual time due to summer hours, Francie sends me home twenty minutes early. Most of shipment has already been processed, the floors swept, go-backs put in their place and markdowns organized. Given that there was a woman in the store earlier arguing over the counter that she was overcharged on fragrance oils, I'd rather not stay and listen to Francie go off on a tangent about fraudulent customer service policies. Last year there was some kind of lawsuit against the Frog brothers accusing them of harassment. There's always something legally outrageous to happen during the summers in Santa Carla. I really don't want to be around that again, so I take what's left of my lollipops (which isn't much) and call it a day.

The weather has cooled down to a comfortable warmth by the time I walk out. There's still time left before the entire Boardwalk shuts down and as usual, there's plenty of people milling about to fit four gymnasiums. I trudge along sidewalks my friends and I used to take after school, smelling the sugarcane of cotton candy, the bitterness of the Surf Nazi's spilled liquor and everything else that's changed over the summer. The scent of fresh laundry gone stale; the perfectness of a photograph crinkling around the edges. An aging that no one wants to see but will have to eventually.

I find myself drifting along the beach, like a scrap of wood being pulled into sea. My shoes, unlaced with sand sticking to the white sides, hang off two of my fingers as I walk to a cleaner, quieter spot by the high cliffs where the lighthouse is more visible. It's bright wide light sweeps over the blackening waves from left to right, mechanically. It's never been properly taken care of for years, despite the single workman going up to turn on the light each night and a lot of adolescents once and a while camp out up there to see who will get scared first. There's been tons of origin stories about the place, but none of them have ever been confirmed to be true. The beacon always stays lit, though.

The only light on a night this dark.

I sit on a soft mound of sand, knees to my chest and watch as the water licks along the shore. Sometimes I forget how pretty Santa Carla really is. Being in a state of inconsistency, both at home and outside, it doesn't leave you with much incentive to think about the nice things, the positive accumulations aside from the negative. And no matter the margin difference between the two, the good things will always outweigh the bad, if you think about it hard enough. I haven't been thinking at all, though.

Should I be?

"Hannah."

I lift my head from it's resting spot against my folded arms and squint through the murkiness. A long shadow casts it's claw-like limbs against the driftwood, settling over me and blocking the sparse source of pink light filtering from the Boardwalk. When I peer over my shoulder at the figure, though, my heart skips. A wind whipped skirt, that embroidered shawl I've come to recognize so much. Womanly and beautiful in it's unearthly shade.

Realization setting in, I rise unsteadily to my feet, the sudden gust of wind knocking me slightly askew. "Star?"

She walks closer, her features hitting the moonlight, but doesn't say anything; just smiles sadly.

Without thinking, I throw my arms around her and hug her tightly to me, feeling her wild curls press against my cheek. She stills at the contact at first, inhaling sharply, but after a moment she tugs her hands out from my embrace and returns the greeting. Her skin is cold and sends chills up my spine when she brushes against my exposed skin. Even her hair smells like salt from the sea, the cloth wrap she usually has around her shoulders giving off an old withered scent, like antique furniture stores. It sinks in slowly, like a doctor's syringe, that she's really here. This is actually her and I get to talk to her again.

I don't realize just how rash the action was until I hear a group of young kids laughing far away, making me snap away from the embrace. "I was worried," I tell her after pulling away. "I mean, I haven't seen you in a while, so..."

The explanation sounds so lame and needy. I rub the back of my neck awkwardly, feeling the icy air glide over it, and wonder out of all times for her to appear like this, why it happened tonight - when I least expected it, wasn't thinking of it. That's becoming a repeated motion now. People, objects, and scenery changing between the moments when I shut my eyes at night and open them in the morning. And it all happens when I'm not prepared for it, when I think the bad has really passed. I guess I should just start expecting it all the time now.

Star smiles and loosely links her arm through mine. We walk further down the shoreline, finding a more secluded spot along the sand and when we reach a small alcove where the jagged rocks meet, we sit on the grainy hill. She holds my hand gently and doesn't let go.

"I'm sorry." Her voice comes out as quietly as the wind.

I look over at her in surprise. "What for?"

"For not coming back. They make it hard to get away." Star replies, looking out at the water. The soft wind blows wisps of curls away from her forehead.

"It's fine. You don't have to explain it to me if you don't want to."

She goes silent, her hand straining over my own. If she squeezed any tighter, her skin would merge through mine; a balancing mix of stone cold temperature and mild summer nights. "I ran away from home," she confesses. "A long time ago, before I came here. That's how they found me. It was the middle of the night and I had nowhere to go." She pauses then, like this part is the hardest for her to admit. "My father kept drinking that night... him and my mom always talked about how it would've been different if I wasn't around. I was sick of listening to them. All they did was hurt me. So one day, I just ran. I fell asleep on this beach and when I woke up... he was there. He told me I didn't have to run anymore."

The _he_ in her story, I realize, is David.

"You've been with them ever since?" I say.

She nods.

"You can always leave."

"I've tried," she says, her irises turning glossy and I don't know if it's from the sadness in her life or the light of the moon. "They always find me."

"You shouldn't give up," I tell her, not realizing how damn hypocritical I sound.

Star turns to look at me fully, as though this the first time she hears another person's voice, felt their skin against hers, realized that there are others out here that feel the same way she does. But all her eyes project is bleakness. "What else is there to do?"

I don't answer. The sky is too dark to make out anything than what the feeble light from the Boardwalk offers and the sweeps of the lighthouse. The cold bursts from the waves rolling forward makes me shudder and hold the arm that isn't anchored by Star's hand around my middle. Star slides closer to me and extends her long shawl, wrapping the other half around my shoulders, pressing me to her side so our arms are touching. The tiny hairs on my arms raise as she leans her head against mine and I'm faintly aware of the fact that her skin seems to be cooler than the air encasing us, but in all my weary happiness and haze in seeing Star again, it doesn't strike me as anything but normal.

We just stare out and watch the oceans duet with the shore.

She doesn't say much after that and I don't raise questions, despite the bubble of concern that builds in my gut by her explanation of her absence. It makes me wonder what exactly is keeping her tied to those four men - if not a pleasant relationship. Maybe it's not so bad as it feels. Maybe Star is really is okay and it's just one of those days. The kind where everything seems to fall apart in your hands. In a town like this, that's all too normal.

Santa Carla is a grey city.

And it's turning my bones black.

**DAY 32**

The first Sunday I have off in weeks is spent, to summarize it lightly, sifting through boxes of the past.

Since moving in with the Larsens, the crawlspace built into the ceiling of my sliding door closet is being put to use as an extra attic, housing whatever junk Ralph and Jennifer can't fit in the second floor garret. Climbing up there since the day I unpacked, it looks like an antique shop now. A broken rocking chair, old vinyl records, chipped bone china sets and baby clothes are scattered all over without dust coverings or anything. Even some of my stuff is up there, but I wouldn't let Ralph leave them unless they were wrapped tightly in a box and marked. He listened without much argue, something that still surprises me to this day. That probably wouldn't have happened if Jennifer had been in the room.

I sit on the carpeted floor beside my bed, cross legged, and leaf through the only box belonging to me that was subjected to the dust mite invested storage living above my closet. Dirt and grime is caked onto the top of the lid, but I made sure Ralph used extra duct tape before packing it away. Written in thick black felt pen on one side is the word **PHOTOS.** I don't remember taking this much with me when I left the group home. Besides clothes, which wasn't much either to begin with, the miscellaneous objects didn't feel like enough to put in one single box. From the weight of it, there definitely is more in here than just pictures. I'm not sure if I even took any for memory - I might have and just forgotten about it. The irony of that...

The first thing that touches my hand when I reach inside is hair. The texture is soft and fine, like a doll's, but when I pull it out I see that it's my own tresses tied in one long strand with a brown elastic. It doesn't hit me at first glance, but upon further inspection, I realize that it's the first snippet of hair loss during my first haircut at the group home when I was ten years old. My hair was a lighter shade back then and almost always pulled back with another girl's favorite scrunchie that I kept taking without permission. Needless to say, I didn't have many friends during that time. I guess that's one thing that somehow consistently stays the same.

The next item I see in the pile is a photograph. Polaroid.

The shot is of staff members lined up behind kids that were apart of the group home with me, years before the Larsens came into the picture. Some of the children are embracing each other happily while others look as glum as a mugshot taken in a juvenile detention hall. My own figure is tucked away on the far right corner, hidden under a tall boy's shadow. Written in scrawl on the blank white space below is _St. Joseph's Children's Home, 1978._ Thinking back on it now, it really wasn't that bad of a time. The place always smelled like cleaning supplies, there didn't seem to be enough food for everyone and the kids were so loud it was like you had this mini stadium chant in your ears, with a thousand numbered crowd screaming unintelligibly. But still, I felt included somehow. Comfortable. So much has changed since then.

A rapping at the door pulls me from the nostalgia.

"Hannah?" It's Ralph. His voice is muffled by the barrier of wood. "Hey, uh... dinner's ready and waiting downstairs if you're hungry. But if you're not that's, ah... that's fine. No pressure."

A beat passes.

Neither of us say a word and I sit tight, anticipating the thump of his shoes to go down the stairs, but it doesn't. It's almost like he's deciding on what to say next. Or waiting for me to talk first. How long would he stand there if I stayed quiet?

I swallow the dryness in my throat, never taking my eyes off the door as if he's melting through it. "Okay."

Silence.

Then floorboards creak with the weight of Ralph's heavy steps as he descends back down to the kitchen, where the clink of cutlery and metal cooking pans echo. I sigh with relief, shoulders slouching into relaxation. This isn't the first time he extended an invitation to dine with him and Jennifer like I used to before everything went down. Once he even asked if I wanted to go along with him to a trip to the dry cleaners. They were never those kind of foster parents, the ones who made the first move and tried to create a relationship, a different routine. It's like my addition to the household was just another cog in their everyday machinery, something that they needed to weed into their schedules, for convenience sake. And the monthly checks.

It's weird to see Ralph trying this hard, after two years. I guess he feels bad and wants to overcompensate for low blowing me like that. And by that account, I should probably be a little nicer to him. He's not being a big of a jerk as he could be.

But I still don't go downstairs for dinner.

**LATER THAT NIGHT**

Most of the day is spent inside my room.

Life, as bleak and monotonous as it seems in the Larsen household, continues down below. The Santa Carla Nightly news blares on the old television set, Jennifer's upbeat aerobic music powers on in the master bedroom across the hall, and somewhere out beyond the borders of the Santa Carla Boardwalk, the joyful screams of happy children can be heard. Summer activities don't seem to mesh well with the nighttime anymore. Even with the dawn, the casual school free vacation has been dwindling down and in it's place, is something that doesn't feel entirely wholesome. Sinister almost.

And I don't know the cause of it.

When the sun sets, I pull back the curtains and open the window to let in a breeze of silky night air. The cold rush feels good against my hair as I sit at my window ledge and look out into the night. Lights twinkle ahead from the Boardwalk strip and I can distinctively hear the roar of rollercoasters as it whirls over and over on it's tracks and the nursery-like jingle that plays on the Ferris Wheel when people stand in line. Francie must be fussing to restock the merchandise while keeping on eye on the register. Multi tasking was never her strong point; that's why she had to hire me. Even though she found it in her aging soul to give me the day off, I find myself feeling useless and unsure what to do with my time. I could go downstairs and have something to eat, as if this house didn't need anymore awkward dinner adventures punctuated with the occasional screech of a fork on a plate. Or I could just call it a night and go straight to bed.

The wind howls between swaying tree branches.

The decision is clear. I snatch my house key from the dresser, walk out into the hall by Jennifer's closed bedroom door, down the stairs past Ralph's figure dozing off on the sofa and out the door. The volume of the city is doubled in places without walls. Every noise rings in my ears as I trudge down the sidewalk, unsure of where to go, but knowing that I wanna go _somewhere._ The beach is too cold and I can't go to any of the hang out spots my friends and I used to frequent without feeling glum. As contrived as it is, the only thing I can stand right now is fake cheer.

So I go to the Boardwalk.

As expected, the entrance sign is flooded with a crowd pushing their way to get passed the threshold. I wander past random game booths, watching people whack plastic animals with foam clubs, snap various pictures with disposable cameras. How great that must be, I think to myself, to be so carefree.

As I stand off near a corner where the go-kart ring is, I feel a hand on my arm. Delicate and icy, but the feeling doesn't spike me with discomfort. I turn toward the quiet presence, meeting the soft gaze of deep brown eyes.

"Oh, hey, Star," I say, my tone brightening at the sight of her. The mute kid, Laddie, clings to her right leg. "I didn't think you'd be here."

Star smiles and something about it seems distracted, like she forced herself to come here under false pretenses. Her curly hair whips behind her with the wind and I realize that this is the first time I've seen her without a shawl wrapped around her frame.

"Can you watch Laddie for a while?" She asks with a crinkle in her brows. "There's something I have to do."

"Oh, uh, yeah," I accept with surprise and rub the side of my neck awkwardly. "Yeah, sure."

Relief floods her features. "Thank you. I don't have anywhere else to take him."

"What about those other guys?"

Star's eyes flash, a sudden fierceness coming over her. "I can't," she refuses. "I don't want them around him." She sounds so protective. I can't help but think of where lost people would've been if they had someone to look after them as Star does for Laddie.

The kid himself has been silent this whole time and just fists a chunk of Star's skirt in his hand. By looking at him, I can't think of any way to make this squirt open up to me like he does for her. Children aren't ones to shy away from expressing distaste, especially over a guardian, so I'm nervous about this to say the least. I don't really know what I'm in for.

Star kneels down to Laddie's level. "Stay with Hannah, okay? I'll be back soon."

He only nods.

After thanking me again, Star turns back toward the crowd and disappears through a parting gap. It feels like a vortex had just opened, sucked a bit of life out, sealed shut again and I'm left wondering how to cover this hole up without anybody else noticing. I glance back down at Laddie, who stares at me now with those big doe-like eyes of his, as if to say, _You're my babysitter now. Do something._ I've never been around kids that much in my life. It's not that I don't like them; it's just that I can't help but feel aged around them, like who I am inside doesn't match up with the outer layer.

I push a lock of hair that flew into my eyes behind my ear. "So, uh.. what do you feel like doing?"

Keeping true to his quiet nature, Laddie grabs me by the hand and leads me to a game booth where you have to toss softballs at a row of five targets to win prizes. There's at least ten other kids crowding around waiting to play, so I stand back and watch them go at it, making sure Laddie doesn't get shoved in the process by other excited children. Occasionally, I gaze around at the surroundings, seeing adults, teens, and greasers come in and out of the park rides. The Boardwalk has never been more alive, but something about the atmosphere tonight feels weird, like everything is just a page ripped from a child's color book and scribbled over with grey crayons.

Laddie plays at the gaming station for a few minutes, making all the shots except for the last one. When he misses his fifth try, he makes that little sad face only kids can make that break even the hardest of hearts. I don't like seeing tykes like him this way, so I reach over him for a softball and chuck it with half the effort to the target zone. It lands straight at the red circles with a _bang,_ making him win the game. There's a twinkle in his eyes as the game operator hands him his prize: a stuffed grey cat plushie. I stifle a laugh; it looks more dinosaur than feline.

Considering the effort he put into it, I think he got cheated. I almost tell the guy to give him something better, but Laddie takes it eagerly and holds it close like it's a real animal and it hits me that kids see the world through rose tinted goggles. What they see is not always how we see it. And what's little to me might be big for Laddie and that's a mind frame I grew out of a long time ago. Sometimes I forget it's possible to still have it. I don't wanna rob that from him, so I stay quiet and follow behind him as he weaves through tall legs to the next station. An ice cold, tickling feeling runs up my arms, making me look over my shoulders every now and then. I scan and scan and see nothing but oblivious party goers, the sides of heads, tight lipped smiles.

Also, I see Star.

She's not alone this time. The Mystery Guy from the concert walks beside her now, looking just as enamored with her as he was before. At first I think he's relentlessly following her against her wishes, but then I see the tiny smile pulling at her pink lips. The sparkle in her eyes.

 _Oh_ , I think to myself. _She's on a date._

Turning back to the kid, I hold his prize for him as he eagerly plays a water gun game. Droplets splash all along the backdrop and even onto the bottom of my jeans. I shiver, not necessarily out of the spatter of water everywhere, but from the instinctual tug inside that whispers for me to constantly monitor the surroundings...

Why does it feel like we're being watched?

**SEVERAL HOURS LATER**

Laddie really likes to play.

Several games later (actually got some words out of the kid this time) and he's starting to act like an every day adolescent boy. It comes to the point where he asks me to join in with him at a station and I do. He seems to particularly favor the ones that require good aim. He's a pretty sweet kid, if not kind of aloof, but at least he's not one of those kind of ankle biters that are always wired off sugar and somehow get their hands dirty with something sticky. The dawning realization that I had to look after this child for however long Star's date lasted was difficult to swallow at first, but now I find myself warming up to it. Maybe even enjoying it a little. I don't think it's to the point where I'll ever want kids of my own, but if Ethel's ever goes bankrupt, at least I have a solid plan B.

"Wow, you're good at this game!" Laddie exclaims after I dunk a mini basketball through a hoop from five feet away.

I only shrug and turn to look at a shelf of knick knacks. A six inch owl is squished between other plush items of animals, eyes made up of plain black buttons. His nose is painted a goldish yellow and his cotton filled wings are held out slightly as though he's preparing to take flight. It's cute enough for me to actually stop and stare at. When I pick it up to check the price tag, I see that it's five dollars. In my pocket, I'm only carrying about three. I guess I've outgrown stuffed animals anyways.

With a sigh, I turn to follow Laddie, who marches on ahead of me, the grey cat plushie clutched to his chest. When we get close to the area where people lock up their bikes, a familiar feminine figure in a white skirt approaches him from the front.

Star.

Laddie eagerly runs over to her and takes her hand. "Star, look what Hannah won for me!" He lifts up the toy for her to see, childish mirth saturating his voice.

Star smiles, first at him, then up at me. She looks the same as before, except the Mystery Guy is no where to be seen, and all four biker guys are waiting behind her - taut on their motor vehicles and close enough for me to hear their voices clearly if they talked. The bleach haired one, David, lights a cigarette and puts it to his lips, letting it rest lightly there. Smoke rises from the end as he watches us.

Watches me.

I feel cold as Star comes up to me, her small shoulders suddenly broad in the black military jacket she wears. The expression on her face is different now, all traces of peace gone.

"Thank you for watching Laddie," she says softly. "I didn't know where else to take him."

"It's okay. He's a good kid," I tell her. "How was your date?"

"It wasn't a date."

"It looked like you having fun to me," I point out slyly. "I didn't know you liked him now."

Star glances down at that, like she's confused about it herself, about why she's here in the first place. About everything. I frown, wondering what exactly has gotten her into a mood like this and I'm prepared to ask-

Then David calls for her.

Star freezes, her eyes shutting for a second before she looks over her shoulder at them. David looms in the background, cigarette held between two fingers now, but he's not smoking it. His arm is thrown over the bike handle, the other braced against his muscular leg. He taps the tip of the joint, ash trickling down to the wooden planks. The look in his sky blue eyes... I've never seen a guy who exudes so much intensity. And he doesn't have to say anything when he does it.

When Star looks back at me, her eyes are beseechingly wide. "Can you promise me something?" Her voice is almost a whisper.

I nod. "Anything."

"Say no."

"What?"

"Whatever David asks you... say no."

"But why would he-"

"Hannah, please." She grips my arm like it's the last that living thing she'll ever touch. It scares me. "You don't what they are."

"So tell me."

"I can't," she whispers. "I can't, I'm sorry." She takes a deep breath and blinks away the tears that prickle at the corner of her eyes. I've never seen her like this and I have no idea what to do. What can someone do when their friend is talking in riddles? Showing signs in colors that I can't see?

"Don't make the same mistake I did," she adds on after a moment, hand coming down to hold my own. "I don't want you to end up like me. I wish I could be honest with you, Hannah, but I don't know where to start. I wouldn't know how to tell you everything."

I don't say anything. I just concentrate on how her cold palm feels against my warm one, how the wind blows her curls behind her, blurring the shapes of those men. An anomaly. That's slowly what the whole world is becoming now.

"Promise me?" Star voice is small again.

Her brown eyes chain me down under like steel anchors. I feel small too. "Okay... Okay, I promise."

She quickly envelops me in a hug at that and it's doesn't feel like just any sort of hug. Not a 'goodbye' or a 'thank you' gesture, but something in between. It's eerily similar to the time I saw her on the beach after her absence and it's weird to be the one on the receiving end of it. I can't get rid of the nagging whisper that tells me the picture isn't complete whenever I'm around her, whenever I see those four bikers. But I don't know what else it could be. I just know that there is _something._

Star pulls away after a minute, her expression much softer than before. She clutches my hand, squeezes it once, then let's go before turning back to the row of strange men. Laddie is already situated behind the guy with the raven black hair as Star swings herself behind David, her feet bare against the metal. I expect them to all rev up and peel off right away, but they don't. At least, David doesn't. He lingers behind for a moment, his slate blue eyes on me as he reaches inside his trench coat. My breath hitches.

Then an object is tossed to me.

I catch it with both hands before it drops. The material is soft and fuzzy against my fingers, and it takes a second for me to realize it's the owl plushie I had been looking at earlier. The price tag is still attached to it. Vendors usually take them off after purchase. _How did he...?_

My thoughts fade out as I stare at the owl's tiny face in astonishment before looking up again at the blonde biker. His stare burns holes into me, like he's the only thing real in this moment and everything else is meaningless slabs; colorless paint on an artist's canvas. The rumble of his bike is deafeningly loud as I watch him ride away. Star's hair blows like a sheer curtain behind him and her warning repeats over and over in my head.

I've never been more confused.

**MIDNIGHT**

Later on, long after the Boardwalk has shut down for the night, I trudge down the sidewalk that leads to my neighborhood, thumbing the stuffed animal in my hands absently. At the intersection that marks the roads that travel toward the heart of the city and the strips of suburban homes, something bright and thin falls out from above my head and sticks to my chest. I stop in my tracks, startled and yank the parchment off me.

It's a Missing Person's ad.

The serious face of Mr. Beasley is plastered on a big black and white portrait, listing his personal information along with the time and date he disappeared.

 _He disappeared?_ I think to myself, realizing that it's been several days since I've seen the middle aged man patrolling the perimeter of the Boardwalk and anywhere else for that matter. Have I really been so blind to what's been going on? After living in this city for so long, watching this human being in his boring nightly routine for the past year... why has it all the sudden flown under my notice? I used to be able to see everything.

Everything familiar is getting erased now.

With the paper cold and crinkling in my hands, I gaze up at the sky where the flyer floated down from, like it was destined to collide with me.

The darkness stares back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for the feedback on the first chapter. It gave me that extra push to go through with the ideas I have. I hope this wasn't too disappointing considering the boys didn't make an appearance until the very end again and there wasn't any dialogue from them - I hope to break that in the next chapter now that I have the plot points set in motion. 
> 
> In case anyone was wondering, She-Ra is a fictional character from the 80s cartoon She-Ra: Princess of Power.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Take care. :)
> 
> Soundtrack: "Don't Dream It's Over" by Crowded House


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